Stolen Kiss
by Ashmoe
Summary: In the end, your choices lead to where you are... John and Sherlock agree. Update: They have met, and now it's all up to them whether this will be just a partnership or something more, before it's too late. R&R, be kind, rated M for later chapters.
1. He's hurting

It tore him to pieces. He stood long after the others had turned and walked away- stood and begged and prayed that the name on the stone before him was wrong, that what he had seen and heard was wrong and it was all a dream-

But it wasn't. It wasn't, and John had failed... he had failed to save the one person he would die for. Lestrade had to tug him, but John held no resistance, only dragging behind him with hollow eyes and no expression readable to the DI's eyes.

He visited the grave again dressed in black, a month later. Molly had dragged Sherlock- to an outlook over the grave, to make him see what he had done. Yes it had hurt Lestrade and even Molly too, despite her knowing he lived. Even Anderson and Donovan shed a tear... but John.

"John..." He whispered upon seeing the outline of the doctor, aching for being gone for so long that he could barely recall the man's voice.

Watson drudged past the lines of headstones and came to stop several feet away from the grave on lead feet. "Why is he hesitating?" Sherlock whispered more to himself than to Molly. "He's hurting, Sherlock." Came the mortician's soft reply.

Slower than before, John proceeded, the object in his hand now visible: a single scarlet rose. This rose he placed at the foot of the stone which bore Sherlock's name, and stood silent at the foot of the grave. After nearly an hour of making up the excuse to make sure it was clean around his resting place, John turned to leave and made it back to the spot he had hesitated on before. To this Sherlock furrowed his brow.

John's breath quickened and his vision grew blurry, and the second they betrayed him by sliding down his face he ran back to the grave and pressed a kiss to the name. "Stole a kiss-" He tried to joke through the lump in his throat.

A stray tear ran down the cheek of the alabaster prince atop their perch. He wanted to go home.

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><p><strong>-reviews are how people improve...-<strong>


	2. Dreamer

**You all have no idea how happy I am to see someone reads the first story in my account! I wish I could give you jumper wearing kittens named Martin, but I cannot... I own none of the characters, yadda yadda... what you have just read was an interlude of things to come. From here on out, the chapters will be significant moments, decisions and sacrifices the men of 221B Baker Street, have had to endure to find one another.**

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><p><em>Every great dream begins with a dreamer<em>... He had read that somewhere- from a book in secondary school he recalled. He hadn't the time to memorize the whole of the quote, nor whom had spoken it or written the words. His mind had more useful things to be filled with than something spoken to encourage him at any rate. It had done his job, giving him insight beyond his years to what he longed to be.

The boy with ebony curls, eyes alight with pale ice, used all of his strength for the task at hand. He dragged fallen limbs bigger than his own long, thin frame and pushed and tugged and tied them into place. He threw leaves and the things he cherished most, carefully into the structure and when he had depleted himself of his energy sat exhausted on the earth's floor, grinning like an idiot. Before him sat a magnificent (in his eyes) ship. A ship that would sail him into his future, to the dreams he held so dear; where he would be able to change the world with his actions and deeds. It didn't matter what others thought of him, for they did not have a place in his world. His world was huge, it was vast and endless and full of things to _know_... still, he felt his dream was incomplete.

Though he knew he wanted to make a difference, he did not know what to _be_. Doctor's made a difference... lawyers and politicians and teachers and philosophers and... His eyes flew open wide, and the trademark 'o' of his lips formed for the first time, sealing his destiny (though he didn't believe in such things). Setting limits upon who he was, is the same as memorizing the quote; a waste of his talent. He had once wanted to be a pirate- raiding the seven seas and such...

The boy rose to his feet, not bothering to dust himself off as he stood face to face with his creation, his time machine. He boarded with certainty, knowing full well who he would be.

He was Sherlock Holmes, and what he would be no one else would have never been before. He hadn't the faintest what it was, where he would go or what exactly he would do, but he'd be damned if **Mycroft** had all the fun!

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><p><strong>Sherlock has made his choice, and it was so, SO much <em>fun<em> writing out that scene! Pirate Sherlock was a blast to conjure up with him as a child, what a wild imagination he must have had and then pile that up with his intelligence. I have no doubt he would have built a pirate ship out of branches and leaves.**  
><strong>-Reviews are as sweet as, well, you! -<strong>


	3. Autumn Defense

**Any questions? I will be more than happy to give you answers, and reviews are my virtual jam and tea. Please do not let me go without jam and tea...**

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><p>In a wonderfully snug town in the United Kingdom there lay a boy of twelve, with sandy blonde hair and eyes a vivid blue green, smile as bright as the sun. In the grass he resided, basking like a cat in the rays of the spring sun, pondering many things. Some of them were typical, some were incredibly bold or unusual for a child his age to ponder over... but he still pondered them. Any question asked is worth getting answers for right? His logical mind told him. He wondered how clouds felt, what made the sky blue, and why bad things happened to nice people he knew.<p>

Perhaps, it was the choices they had made when they were little... bad things like that can really make a person mean. He decided he would be kind. He would be a kind and smart and obedient boy, so nothing would be bad in the future for him. The boy smiled at the sky. 'Learn from those around you' He thought.

Sadly, this little boy had no idea the future would have a bit of rough ahead... for this little boy, is none other than John Watson.

As he grew older, he became set in his ways; the underdog, the protector, the helper, the good boy, John. Still when he was in his mid-thirties, he should have known this day was coming. he had just lied to himself day in and out that it wasn't true, that he had been merely over-dramatizing the situation... but he had never been a fool. This boy- from day one- was driven by instinct.

Instincts that had kept him from the eyes of potential bullies and in the next breath had him beating another kid within an inch of his life for bullying someone else. He was the scapegoat with sharp hooves; the boy with the devil's right hook and God's wrath and the sparkling eyes and charming smile that swore he'd "Never do it again I swear!" From sun up til sun down he had lived by his instinct- his parent's favoring of his older sister was something he didn't mind. He actually loved that he wasn't pampered, and had kept sharp edged and strong on his own.

Later down the road he was makings of a man in an eighteen year old body, and was left to bloom as such- until his parents uprooted him. The second they had caught wind of his sister's interest in other girls, they all but disowned her, and cast their burning, hungry eyes upon sweet John. It was then that his fate was sealed; forced into obedience, John still held tight to his dream. He pushed through medical school with honors, and in autumn after he had received his M.D. the man darted.

He ran from his parent's expectations and Harry's pleading eyes out of a flash of defiance. John's dream wasn't in an office! It was out _there_; out in a world that was huge and vast and endless... and so full of things to _know_...

John Hamish Watson signed up, and was shipped out before his parents even knew where to look. If they needed him, he would be where he was needed most: out in the sands of Afghanistan.

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><p><strong>I'm going to see if any of you see the similarity of Sherlock's previous choice and John's. For it is the one that sealed their fates and set them on the paths to meet so many years from this moment, in the lab at Bart's . The next chapters will have the interactions go more in depth, these three chapters were more guide lining you into what will occur next, that you all probably already know all too well...<strong>


	4. Black and Blue

**A/N: Title is debatable and may change, but mainly was inspired by the color of Sherlock's hair and eyes. It does not mean that Sherlock has been beaten, though he may look that way after chasing down someone in this chapter. I did not add the case sequence, because sadly I lack the amazing skill to write that out and really do not want to botch up the deductions of Sherlock. I would have to disown myself if I ever did that...**

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><p>He had only meant to stay until he had received what he had been after all along; the seven percent solution of drugs that now coursed through his veins left his mind whirring either too fast or too slow, and for the hundredth time since he had started taking it, he wondered if this had gotten out of hand before firmly clamping down on the thought. Sherlock Holmes was above being hooked on things like this, he didn't have a problem and that was what lead to his doing this every so often (almost three times a week and steadily growing worse).<p>

Stumbling haphazardly out of the building and into the alley, his clear eyes darted around nervously and studied his surroundings, finding a couple of people walking his way. It seemed they hadn't spotted him, honestly it seemed like they were more focused on one another than the doped up bystander slouched against the dumpster. The man ahead of the other had just started walking a bit faster when the other behind him drew out a gun from inside his jacket pocket. Sherlock's eyes began to analyze from the second the click of the gun rotating the barrel had started to shift.

'_mid to late thirties- half Irish and not from town, no he's from an area further north of London- just arrived- eyes scrunched in an odd way, this is revenge, not for him, for someone else, sister? - Shift in his stance says drunk, eyes hazed, confirmed drunk-' _

The first shot flew through the victim's shoulder and Sherlock jumped at the sound before three more were being buried into the helpless man. He did what he only knew to do at the moment with drugs crowding his mind and forcing him to start thinking erratically; he ducked behind the dumpster and hid. Breathing heavy and heart speeding like a jack rabbit, he knew he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He should have never come here! The drunk stumbled a bit forwards, having spotted the quick movement before hearing sirens- someone from the complex beside the alley had called the Yard, after having heard the multiple shots fired.

"Damn it all-" He fired one last shot, straight into the dead man's head, then ran from the scene, back down the way that he came. Sherlock without a seconds hesitation, ran as well. One-third of him told him to stay, the other two-thirds told him to keep running. He had drugs in his system, and though he had no weapon on his body he would be pinned as a likely suspect and a likely scapegoat for the killer to get off free.

When the case had went unsolved for days afterwords- the solution long gone from his system- Sherlock stood listening to the news of it with a ruffled air about him. The impudence that ran the so called 'brilliant men' of London's police force were nothing short of imbeciles! It irked him enough, that he had strode down to the alley himself to survey the scene just to spot all of the things they had missed for the hell of it. It was his walking around on the crime scene that a man with very faintly salt- flecked hair stopped him for questioning. He looked tired, worn down and on edge- but he stood tall and his eyes shone. Holmes didn't know how to react, it was the first sign of mild intelligence that he had seen in ages (besides his own family of course) and he suddenly began standing straighter, holding his head higher.

"Sir you cannot be here, this is a-"

"Crime scene." Sherlock finished for him, causing the man to tilt his head and eye him suspiciously. "I assure you I am no threat."

"Walking into a crime scene and nosing around makes you a potential threat. You can't be here."

"I know this. Did you miss the bullet casing kicked into this crack in the wall or did you just forget to mention them..."

The officer looked at him, a bit startled, eyes still trained on him as he bent to look. Sure enough, the casing to hold bullets was there- wet from mornings rain and night's chill- but there.

"I can also tell you, that you are looking for a man of five foot fifteen, has a drinking problem and lives out of town."

"And why should I believe that I'm not looking at the killer right now..."

Sherlock looked at him, baffled. "A man who has sunk his whole life into his job, stays late at his desk and tried desperately to make DI, should know a killer when he sees one. Do I look like a murderer to you?" He asked.

When the man stared at him, Sherlock smirked and walked up to him as he spoke again in his deep baritone voice. "I can help you catch him. I can give you every detail and description... the size of his shoes and the color of his coat... it may perhaps, even help you receive the promotion you so desperately wish for."

"What do you want for it." He stated. 'The man is no fool, this should be fun,' He thought. "To find him on my own of course. Let me work it out, find all of the evidence and track him down, and I will deliver him to you on a silver platter after I've solved it."

An odd silence followed, a couple of officers further down the alley stopped to look at the two with questions in their eyes. After being given such an offer, and being denied so long the position he wanted... the man caved.

"Alright."

Sherlock smiled devilishly, "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Lestrade."

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><p>Was it fair? Lestrade didn't seem to think so. He had received all of the spotlight for the case, and had gotten what he wanted... but the man who had done all the work, on one of the hardest cases he had been set upon, received nothing. After all of the thanking and congratulations had been dealt him, he slipped away from the Yard and made his way back to the last place he had seen Sherlock- beside the Bart's academy while he was people watching.<p>

"Sherlock," He huffed, spotting the rake thin man on the park bench.

"Ah, Lestrade. Seems you've been promoted-"

"Shut up and listen to me."

That caused the man to frown, but Greg straightened his back to continue. "What you did to solve the case... it was nothing I've ever seen before," He lifted a hand to silence Sherlock when he was going to interrupt, "I want to ask you... if we run across a case like this again, if I could contact you for assistance."

"You have hundreds of people-" Sherlock heard himself saying.

"But none of them could tell me what you could. None of them could see or do even half of that... I can offer you cases to solve, but it requires two things from you."

Sherlock stiffened at that, eyes growing cold. They always wanted something, it was never just give. There was always a catch...

Greg handed him a phone, brand new and never used. He knew instantly who had filled the new DI of London in on him. 'Mycroft...' "Find a good flat and clothes, and quit the drugs. I can't have you trouncing about the Yard to meet me over a case with toxins in your veins."

It was silent for so long after he had finished speaking, that Greg was worried that he had destroyed his chance to save the man. But Sherlock rose to his feet, looking down at the phone before pocketing it. It was his chance to be something no one else ever was and probably never would be. The drugs had gotten him by when he thought he couldn't live for the dull world around him closing in. Now there was a hint of color, a glimpse of hope- and he was on it's trail. He was finally in the right place, at the right time.

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><p><em>After quite a few cases, Sherlock had moved from his old complex to the flat marked 221B Baker Street ,with the compliments of Misses Hudson- a woman whom he had agreed to help on the case of her husband. His wardrobe shifted back into the expensive brands he fit in so well.. his black curls returned to their natural luster, and his ice blue eyes held no haze of drug use, and things had remained that way for several years now. On one odd day, he was in the lab at Bart's working with chemicals... waiting for Molly to bring coffee when the door opened- his life ended, and began at that precise moment...<em>

_"Hmm... a bit different from my day..."_

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><p><strong>John has arrived! Have you ever stopped to think, what if Sherlock had turned that case down, or had never met Mike Stamford? The man could have forgotten, he could have not said a word, but no- he took it upon himself to introduce them. I dedicate this chapter to that man, we of the John and Sherlock-shipping fandom adore and thank you, Mike Stamford!<strong>


	5. Trust Issues

**The quote below is actually real, that is why I have taken the measure of marking it, so as to not be imposing upon any wrongdoings by pure accident. I was trying to look up the details and so on, when I found this snippet, and it clicked. So I figured, this base was attacked and and did not state (at least in the one I found)** **whether the base was American, French, or English**. **So I made it English. If it is wrong, oh well, I am not changing it because I actually adore this chapter. Read and review, and thank you for those who already have! You have stocked me well with rations of tea and jam... now I need violins, body parts and a skull! -insert comical laugh here-**

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><p><strong><em>"<em>_In the spring and summer of 2008, the violence in Afghanistan claimed more coalition (foreign) troops than died in the concurrent Iraq War. The Taliban, enjoying strong bases in Pakistan, enjoyed a resurgence and showed that it could launch large, coordinated, and effective attacks on coalition and Afghan forces. One of the deadliest attacks came on French troops in mid-August, with a force of about 100 Taliban ambushing French forces near Kabul. Ten French troops were killed, and 21 wounded. The same day also saw an attack by a squad of suicide bombers on another base near the Pakistani border.__" __- Roger , History Media; the War in Afghanistan_**

The heat was sweltering as it had been for God knows how long. The night offered just about the same result; too stuffy to anyone in the barracks to relax and sleep. Well, not _everyone per_ say. John Watson seemed right at home there actually. He had arrived several years ago, and not once had they seen him lose that level headed temperance. Not under artillery fire, not under bomb threats, and not under pressure to fight by the others around him. Unshakeable Doctor John Watson was nothing short of a God-send to the troop sitting neatly on the razor edge of relatively calm, and hell in a hand basket.

Doctor Bradley Harper was one who knew this well, having served alongside the man- best medic he had seen in ages. If John needed help, he was one of the first who came running, if he ever _did_ snap and get into a fight with a bunch of burly morons in steel-toe boots (though who would tussle with John he hadn't the faintest. A man wishing for his death perhaps?) , he would fight alongside the man. Of course, there were several others that his friend and comrade in arms knew, because that was what John did: he wove himself into the fabric of people with very little hitches in the process.

So when Watson agreed to a mission on the field, of course Harper backed him up, as did several others...

When Bradley was little, like all little boys he used to play "war". In place of his small toy gun in his hands, there was a fully loaded military registered rifle. He didn't need his imagination, there lay bodies and blood and screams could be heard from miles. John marched on...

Bullets flew and howled through the air- deafening and downing several of their men, They carried on despite the fears. Do or die, they were going to help the man trapped in the hills... just a mile or so from the barracks. Harper shook... John marched on...

He had been ahead of John, and in the end, he would never take that back. He wouldn't trade places for the world- because the world needed John Watson, more than they needed Bradley. The bullet that hit him, did not torture him to death as it did others. It was fitting of him, the way he died; the sturdy, silent slivers of metal had pierced his loving heart and spinal chord, killing him instantly without pain. Watson ran to his aid, eyes blurring with tears he never knew he could cry on the battlefield. He did not see the second bullet released from the chamber of the same man across the way from them.

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><p>They cleaned him up as best as they could, but could not take the lifelessness from the man's eyes. He had been like that for hours, days, weeks, months, <em>years<em> after that day. Even though he escaped with his life, he was rewarded with this: a therapist to try and contain him, a limp to immobilize him in his own eyes, a drunkard sister, a family he did NOT want to contact, a stunning lack of pay for the hell he was in and no one to help.

"Trust issues" was what his therapist had been writing on that paper for awhile now, and she was damn right. He didn't trust her, right now he didn't trust himself! He had picked up that gun by his bedside more times than he will ever admit, and woke from repeating the deaths of his comrades every _fucking night._ He sure as _hell_ wasn't going to be ready to trust anyone anytime soo-

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine..."

"And what's wrong with the landlines?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat." Stamford replied, moving further into the room.

"Oh, here... use mine." said John, removing his phone from his pocket to rest it in the man's hand.

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><p><strong>AN: AAAAAND in the next chapter~ I cannot wait, too excited to write the rest of it later! Must right NOW! *begins typing furiously*  
><strong>


	6. The Alabaster Prince and the Arrow

**A/N: Short notice filler chapter for the one I will upload soon! The next one will be a step out of the episodes, to the days in between them that they tell you nothing of besides the case files found on their sites. Hope you enjoy the tiny clip here, the next will be longer I promise!**

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><p>Leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs leading to 221B Baker Street, laughing at... what was it they were laughing at again? Ah yes-<p>

"That was the most ridiculous thing-" John gasped for air, "-I've ever done!"

"You invaded Afghanistan..." He mused, sending a cacophony of giggles from the good doctor that even forced a short, deep chuckle from Sherlock. He had never felt so ecstatic to have someone at his side for once...

"That wasn't just me... why aren't we back at the restaurant..."

"They can keep an eye out," The consulting detective huffed in reply, "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what _were_ we doing there?" John finally asked.

"Oh, just passing the time, and proving a point."

"What?"

"You." He said, turning his head to look towards his landlady's door, lifting his voice a decibel. After spending little under two days with the man, Sherlock couldn't quite grasp why... but John Watson had surprised him somehow. The man has trust issues, yet handed his phone to Sherlock- a total stranger- without hesitation; had made a resourceful move by looking Sherlock up on the internet and also... told Sherlock he was brilliant. 'That... was amazing.' 'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary.'

Those words had never been directed at him, though Lestrade appreciated his skills, he had never voiced anything about it like John did. Does...

"Misses Hudson, Doctor Watson _will_ take the room upstairs..."

"Says who," John breathed. Sherlock smiled, "Says the man at the door."

_tap tap tap _

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><p>There was nothing that could ever force John to take back the fact that he had shot the man from the next building's window, and nothing that could make him tell you different when he goes on to explain why he had made it a kill shot. A person like Sherlock Holmes, comes around only once... in a million years. A <em>man<em> like Sherlock Holmes, comes around even less than that. But a person like John? So far he's never checked for another (later on in the years, Sherlock will tell him he did look for people like John in quality... and found none worth comparing him to. And John will blush at his words).

Level-headed, calm as soft fallen winter snow John Watson... took the single bullet in the chamber of his Browning handgun and killed the man. It would be months before they would speak of it again, brought up a cool evening in spring. When Sherlock asked for the truth, John offered it, instead of the usual moral principal charade.

"It was moral, yes, but I couldn't see you die Sherlock."

"Why?"

"_Why?_ Because- just because Sherlock!" The consulting detective eyed him, jaw set and expression screaming: 'I will deduce you to death' until John started up again. "People need you..."

"You didn't need me, you didn't have to shoot the man or come running to my aid." Sherlock retaliated.

"No," John agreed, causing his flatmate to frown, "No I didn't... but I did. I did because for once in my life there was someone who had helped me, with no intention of getting anything in return. You saw things in me like the problems with Harry, and accepted it without remorse. Not once in my life had anyone ever just..."

Holmes had been holding his breath. How was it that John was speaking the words that were in his mind? The very reasons he would do anything for John, couldn't possibly be the same reasons John...

"John?" His clear tenor voice pierced the silence from his reclined usual position on the couch.

"Hmn?" John hummed as he took a drink of his tea. Sherlock took that moment to clear his mind away of things for a moment.

"_Thank you_."


	7. Five Days Feel Like Fifty To Me

**A/N: As requested I shall continue with the story, and to all of you watching and reviewing or even just reading it: THANK YOU! It's very motivating to see the number of people that view my chapters and such! In this chapter John has gone away to a conference... leaving Sherlock alone for five days...**

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><p>Sherlock found himself alone, walking home from the end of yet another case and already feeling the dark hound of boredom closing in on his heels. John had gone away to a meeting, as per usual this dimmed the world. If he had never met the doctor, this would not bother him so... but a life without John Watson was one Sherlock feared intensely. His flatmate hadn't been gone for even a day, but Sherlock still walked into the flat almost whimpering when he didn't spot the stocky, wide eyed man in his chair.<p>

The first full day John was gone he hated the man for leaving him. How dare he just go to this "conference" and leave his flatmate to suffer through the imbeciles that ran like rats along the streets outside! He stormed through the flat in a fury, dressing gown flailing dramatically out behind him as he sawed at his violin, hoping John would hear it wherever he was. Misses Hudson wanted to intervene, but thought against it when she heard the sawing stop and a stream of filth leave lips in a baritone voice. He had broken one of his strings...

Day Two

The second day Sherlock felt lost. With his violin strings broken, experiments having to simmer and no John in the flat to whine to, the man truly felt void of usefulness. 'Just a few more days... he'll be home in a few more days...' He told himself. Still he pulled out his phone and messaged him.

Bored -SH

John was in his hotel room when he received it, and smiled at the hint of normality and missed the flat a bit. He almost wished he was there, but it was nice to have some time to think clearly. The two were inseparable most of the time, and from the two days away... John missed it already.

Just as bored as you are. -JW

The reply was instant: Then come (he almost put home) back to the flat. -SH

If I do I could get in trouble, this conference will give me a raise at the hospital Sherlock. I don't like it either but I have to grit and bear it for the moment. - JW

Sherlock huffed, burying his face into the couch before his phone bleeped again.

You are a horrible influence. Half of the time I was in the conference room today I wanted to punch the guy beside me for asking a million dumb questions. -JW

Sherlock smiled. I am not a horrible influence for opening your eyes to the mundane things and 'dumb questions' of the common man. -SH

John laughed, perfectly picturing his friend's sharp eyes rolling with the words sent to him.

Day Three

Frustration, aggravation... to put a name on Sherlock's mood today was like pinpointing when and where the next earthquake would occur: impossible, and completely pointless. Because the focus of today, was that today has yet to turn into tomorrow, and tomorrow into Saturday- the day John would be returning to London. Misses Hudson had braved the stairs and the door to check on him, only to find him glaring out the window at the sun, willing it down before burning his eyes into the clock to interrogate it to move faster.

"Oh Sherlock," She cooed, setting down a plate of food onto the table, "He'll be back in two days. Why not go to the Yard and look for another case today? Walking would make the time pass faster-"

He was already pulling his coat on and had kissed her cheek before dashing out the door. 'John come home soon...' The landlady pleaded in her mind, shaking her head before setting the food in the fridge that was thankfully clear of heads and other things at the moment.

Day Four

Day four, the detective was sitting on his couch in his dressing gown and felt his eyes and mind wander to the empty chair. He scolded himself for wishing the man back into the seat, but found he had a lack of motivation to stop wishing it. He missed John, missed his laughing, scolding, caring; his manner and eyes and voice and actions...

He yelled into the Union Jack pillow and babbled to the skull about _why_ he felt this way- the fact that he missed someone was new to him. Ultimately, he decided that he would have to collect more data; what made him miss the man so much was one question he held onto that day.

Day Five

The last day he had thrown himself at the couch face down, whining like an over-sized gangly child. John wasn't back yet, he may not come back, maybe he was happy where he was and he had run away, nonsense- his things are here he would have to retrieve them. What if he sent someone to get them for him? Sherlock held his breath and shooed that thought away. Just as he began listing reasons why John would never leave, he heard the door downstairs open and close.

His upper body bolted upright, fingers digging into the arm of the couch as he strained to hear-

_John's heavy footsteps- that could only be John because he's walking heavier on one foot than the other, the ghost pain is back..._

He scrambled, and why he did he wasn't sure. He shoved the Jack pillow back into John's chair, moved his laptop back to it's spot beside his chair and shuffled to recline in his chair as per usual; fingers pressed together under his chin and eyes closed by the time the door opened.

"Raining cats and dogs outside..." John murmured as he moved to the kitchen to habitually start tea. Sherlock thrilled at hte sound of the familiar voice.

"That's impossible John. It can never _rain cats and dogs._"

"It's a metaphor Sherlock. Nice to see you too."

Sherlock frowned a bit, sitting up to look in the direction of the kitchen before striding in to watch John. He wasn't about to say sorry... "...You didn't kill the man in the conference room did you..."

John Watson giggled, sighing at the end. "No."

"Welcome back."

'It doesn't matter where you go...' He thought, watching John's face light at the words before he offered tea that Sherlock gratefully took, 'all that matters is that you're back here with me in the end.'


	8. Wish I Could Make You Love Me

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. Allergies are acting up and bad weather has kept me on my toes. I managed to write this chapter, but wasn't able to post it until now. *laughs* So here it is, R&R. Also, thinking of another Fan fiction to write for this pairing. If this one goes over well, I will try my hand at the other one and post it here as well. **

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><p>Now John had fallen in love many times, and all of them had been with the wrong person. He would find out either from the start, or further down the road, but not once had he felt this...<p>

"John?" Sherlock's velvet tone seeped into the kitchen where he had hid himself into the task of making tea. The snow outside had burrowed them in, leaving him no choice but to care after the object of his affections who- under some code of ethics- refused to tell him how he had come to be in the Thames two nights ago. It had morphed into a nasty cold, and despite his trying to avoid Sherlock's deductive powers, his caring nature had him walking into the sitting room to sit on the edge of the couch to nag at him until he sat upright.

"Bored..." His friend sniffled as he took the tea offered to him.

"You're sick Sherlock," John reminded him, looking around to be sure experiments were well out of reach before watching the sleuth sit his cup down. "Being sick is boring..." Came the reply, clear blue eyes locking on to John with curious intensity. "Then try to sleep," Sherlock shoots him a look that causes John to glare at him from under his brow, "You will get better faster if you do."

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><p>After making sure Sherlock had taken medicine for his cold, John popped out to retrieve some items from the store. He was grateful for the time to himself, the chill and snow barreled down on him with full force, but that was the least of his problems at the moment. It seemed like everything had turned in him, somewhere down the road... the choices he had made had taken a turn, leading him to where he was- this inevitable split in the straight and narrow path of John Watson's life.<p>

If he denied it all- simply rebuked his emotions and thoughts- they could go on, no, _would_ go on just as friends. Everything would be as it always has, and he would remain in the uncompromisable position he already held with the man he had grown to...

The doctor shuffled into the store, avoiding the chip and pin machine for his own sake when he checked out with a list of things that they needed. He had even picked up some of the things Sherlock had added... but refused to get mercury. 'It's not even AT the store! And it is not coming into the flat, I will not be poisoned and quarantined because you've dropped it on the floor or something!' He thought, but knew Sherlock would ask where it was. John thought once or twice retorting to that question to one about the solar system, but felt it too cruel to toss 'irrelevant knowledge' at the genius.

If he dared. If John would only _try_ and take a _chance_ on his feelings for Sherlock- he would have found out that night, exactly what Sherlock was doing while John was away. Which was pondering same. Damn. Thing.  
>So close to their heaven, but unwilling to take a chance or step out with nothing but heart to show for their actions. Instead, that night they hid into themselves and played their carefully guarded game of charades; avoiding all necessary things that might possibly give the want and love in any way to the other man.<p>

John tended to Sherlock that night, as he would for many more cases and days to come, wishing he had the courage to do this one impossible task- yet afraid of losing him. Sherlock fussed and whined, as always... but he could not fully guard himself with John; never could, and never will. John did not see the lingering gaze or the faint blush or the nervous shift. He barely registered the too soft 'thank you' Sherlock mouthed when he was sure John did not see him.

Watson was still at the split in the road, but Sherlock had made his choice. No one in the world had ever made him feel the way John does, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let it go.  
>Sherlock would get what he wants... if John wants it too...<p> 


	9. Playing In Fire

**A/N: It's about to get heated. You have been warned. For those who have awaited a sex scene...**

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><p>Warm breath alight in clouds of smoke left his lips in the chill, and a never ending starry sky shifted above him as his shoes clicked with the force of which he flew down the concrete streets of London. The smell of smoke and the sting in his eyes - <em>'thermal damage:minor, slight poisoning in the lungs and irritated eyes caused by the carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and-' <em>he would not look back lest he dare to face death. Flame licked the building he had darted from. John would have his **head** if he-

"SHERLOCK!"  
>The Consulting Detective's piercing blue eyes fell upon his doctor who, upon a short inspection, seemed thoroughly disheveled and quite upset at him. His hair frizzed a bit from the slight mist of rainfall earlier that afternoon, his eyes a dangerous stormy gray as he marched to the man. Oh he was in trouble all right. He had run off into danger and had forgotten two of John's unspoken- but known- rules.<p>

"-damn near got yourself killed-"  
>One: A bomb strapped to him does not merit John Watson to worry for his own safety. No, what that means is he cares less about his own well being and choices, and more about Sherlock's.<p>

"-why didn't you tell me what was going on-"  
>Two: John wants to be of use. If Sherlock needs him, he would come running, but that requires Sherlock <em>telling him<em>. John isn't psychic!

Huffing and worn out, Sherlock bent to rest his hands on his knees, trying to work air into his lungs and carbon monoxide out. John had come to a halt a comfortable space away from the well-dressed man, wearing Sherlock's favorite jumper on him. 'All of them are atrocious, but it's the nice one...' He thought, straightening up to take in John in his striped jumper. "Great to see you too John," He breathed.

That made John scowl and his thin lips draw into an even thinner line. Neither one had to say a word- a thousand passed between them in the short silence. Sherlock had crossed a line, and now he had to find his way back onto the other side of it. John witnessed the sharp gaze melt into one only John has seen directed at him, those cupid's bow lips parted slightly and a rather wounded look that held one other emotion to the mix upon his face.

The genius has tried to bite back his emotions and remain in control all of his life. He had perfected the art of denying them long ago, until the combination lock to that vault was picked open by those soft spoken words so long ago...

_"Hmmn... a bit different from my day..."_

In his childish rage of having been so easily bested, Sherlock had run ever faster from accepting his attraction to the man, until he could run no more; the night he fell ill from his tumble into the Thames, the vortex had swallowed him whole and forced the little things in John that he adored to come into full focus when the doctor had pressed a cool rag to his forehead or brought him tea. He tore at the mental assault, because he did not understand, and cried out in despair after John had left, because he had found his conclusion. Endorphins in his blood had made themselves at home with each individual platelet, so that when John Watson- or his smell, his tea, his voice, a text or his _clothes_- came within eyesight or close parameter of Sherlock his heart would kick into overdrive.

So when he and John were standing there, in the chill of a London back road as the Yard went about their work with the fire hoses being pulled from trucks as well, those chemicals forced a blush to his cheeks and his pupils to dilate ever so slightly. And as a doctor who was hell-bent to memorize _everything_ in his textbooks as a college student, John knew what those signs meant. Which caused him to mirror the man before him, but where Sherlock's eyes had narrowed like a predator- John's had widened... like _prey._

"Sherlock..."  
>"<em>John..."<em>  
>John's breath hitched; thinking became hazy for a moment, and then the heavens let loose it's usual downpour upon London and it's inhabitants. Sherlock slipped his hand into John's when the shorter man had turned his face to the sky, pulling him along as they ran from the crime scene hand in hand.<p>

It felt so right to both of them, that Sherlock grinned, and John laughed. With John a step behind Sherlock, they ended up on the same street Angelo's was located, and ran for the shelter of the nearest shop awning. They regained their breath, and then the laughter ensued. To this day it's unsure who started the giggle fit, but it was clear they ended it together when they turned their heads to look at one another.

Suddenly... John doesn't ever want to be anywhere else...  
>He wants those eyes to remain on him for eternity... he never wants to date another girl, speak about relationships to anyone else ever again. The drenched curls make his fingers ache to bury themselves in them; his eyes were still slightly dilated, and the clothes...<br>_**"John..."**_ Sherlock breathed, his name sounding erotic and obscene upon that mouth.  
>John whimpered and caved, suddenly pressing the taller man into the front of the closed shop's window. His lips met Sherlock's innocently, but it held John's heart in it. A single tremor ran through the detective, hands resting on John's forearm and tightening when their mouths began to move.<p>

Slow, tentative movements and slanting to find a better angle... it was John who gasped when Sherlock ran his tongue across his lips to ask permission for entrance. He had never been good at denying Sherlock; he groaned and gasped as he opened his mouth, and Sherlock switched their positions. Effectively pinning John to the glass and- gripping his hips- hoisted him up to equal height to properly snog him to death. He rested a knee between John's legs when his arms began to throb, but his tongue still explored John's oh so inviting mouth.

It ran across and behind teeth, pressed against the roof of his mouth, and curled around John's tongue and each action received different and highly arousing actions. Watson groaned, shivered, chill bumps raised on his skin, and when Sherlock feigned to press his lips to John's pulse he rutted against Sherlock's leg. "Sherlock-" He mewled, head tilting up and fingers digging into the soaked fabric of the midnight black coat.

Halting all progress, he stepped away from John and opted to rest his forehead against him instead. "Home. _Now."_ He demanded, eyes open, nearly all color lost to his blown pupils.  
><em>"Oh God yes..."<em>

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><p>It was a miracle that they had even made it to the flat. All of the years spent hiding their feeling and denying the inevitable forced to the front of their minds, they ascended the stairs and the second the door closed and locked, Sherlock had John's wrists in his hands and pinned him to the door, licking and biting at his neck and he began grinding against him. "Ah, Sherlock-" A harsh rub of Sherlock's promising erection, still covered in well-fitted dress pants, "-Christ-"<br>"Oh John... oh God why didn't we do this sooner? Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to press you onto every surface of this flat and just-" His fingers were already flying, leaving John's hands for a moment to pull the jumper from his lover's body, "-Oh John, can I be in you? Please?"

"You should have been in me an hour ago," John's low rumble replied. He was shaking, and in his anticipation he ended up popping the last three buttons loose from Sherlock's maroon shirt before pushing it off of his shoulders. Sherlock's mouth found a dip in John's collarbone, and bit it when John's fingers tweaked his nipple. Groaning, he slid from John's grip and flicked the button open on John's pants, had John rid himself of his shoes and socks, then in one deft movement, had John naked before him.

He took a step back with a grin that sent a shiver down John's back when he licked his lips. "Turn around and put your hands on the door John..."

Breathing heavy, the doctor followed command and spread his fingers out on it, back arching sweetly and he tried to glance back at Sherlock curiously.  
>"Feet apart, John."<br>Once again, he obeyed his orders, and was rewarded when two slick fingers began rubbing at his tight ring of muscle, making him moan. "Don't be too loud John... Misses Hudson..."  
><em>"Oh, oh-" <em>He whimpered.  
>Sherlock leaned over John to nip at his ear, observing and recording carefully each little everything as he pushed the two digits into him slowly, earning him a long drawn out 'ah'. "God you're beautiful," He hummed in his ear, working him open bit by bit before curling his fingers to graze his prostate. John fell still, gasping when he rocked back into his hand and was rewarded with a scrape of fingers to the sweet spot. "Oh, so you like it there?" Sherlock breathed, quickening the pace and causing him to to slide down the door a bit- fingers scrambling for purchase against the wood but finding none.<p>

Sherlock's free hand, which had idled on John's hip, slid across sweat glistening skin to tease his cock with light grazes of his fingers before grasping to stroke slowly.  
><em>"S-Sherlock-<em>"John pleaded, huffing. That was when Sherlock had a wonderfully wicked idea.

He withdrew his fingers and body from John, causing the man to whine, and then he was back- but between John's quivering legs in front of him. He didn't hesitate to take John into his mouth, and his fingers returned to push three into his slightly stretched hole. The hot flesh in Sherlock's mouth turned him on, and the pulsing piece pushed in and out rapidly- John having flown into a frenzy by the man who's mouth he was now fucking. He buried his fingers into the midnight curls when he hollowed out his cheeks and swallowed when he had John fully in his mouth. Salty pre-cum coated his tongue, but he wanted John's taste in him.

John warned him through his pants and groans, but Sherlock pulled his fingers out of John to grip his ass and hold him there, moving faster until he heard the man moan, felt him shake and hot liquid ran down his throat. Holmes drank him greedily, milking him until all of his cum was down in him, before allowing John to collapse to his knees in front of him.  
>"Oh, we aren't done John..."<br>For the first time, John felt himself getting hard again for a second time...

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><p><strong>AN: Be kind, first sex scene. R&R, and like Sherlock said: they aren't done yet...**


	10. Flower Of Ages

**A/N: Sorry for taking so long, but these kinds of chapters need time to perfect. Sherlock keeps his promise...**

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><p>"Oh, we aren't done John..." Sherlock breathed, lunging forward to pin John to the floor and earning another beautifully soft moan as he scraped his teeth upon the bruise on his collarbone. The genius was in a frenzy- so many things he wanted to try and do to John that he couldn't process them all through his recently accepted and overwhelming devotion to the man mewling below him as their hips began to grind together once more.<p>

"Why are you still wearing paaants-" John whined, fingers back in his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. A chuckle from the baritone voice turned into a hum; Sherlock's rule of no one touching his hair suddenly turned into no one _but John_ touches his hair. "N-not here-" He managed when John began to work at his pants, batting his hands away to pull John's hips to his with one arm, and the other wound around his back to lift him to his feet.

Though Sherlock is in a frenzy by the time they are halfway up the stairs, John slows their progress, setting his foot down in a last ditch effort to find equal ground with his lover on this trail blazing to John's room- less chance of noise reaching Misses Hudson there, but with the gradual increase in his and Holmes' moans and sighs and grunts when John has Sherlock pressed to the wall and rolling their hips, biting at lips and shoulders she would more than likely still hear them.

John's hands grip and Sherlock's hips, halting his motions and drawing their eyes to meet. There the detective sees something he holds his breath for, feels his heart skip a beat at the sight, and for once- the man cannot speak. He cannot think straight, because in order for his mind to work again, John has to speak- has to explain the unabashed love in those endless pinwheel colored eyes.

When it gets dark and hard to see in their later years, John's eyes become a haven he will always be able to find with HD clarity. But, for now, they anchor him down in his sea of desire for John to just ravish him already. What he has to say must be important, and it's Sherlock's job to listen.  
>The soldier brushes his lips against that wonderful cupid's bow mouth, his bottom lip lingering on Sherlock's upper lip, earning a sigh. "Slow down... I'm not ready to share you with the world, Sherlock... just a little more time..."<br>He felt his chest tighten; John wanted the moment to last, before something happened to ruin it. Lestrade calling, Misses Hudson walking into the flat- "Okay John..." He breathed, leaning in to kiss John softly, so incredibly different from the heated ones earlier. This one was a steady growing fire in their veins, lighting every nerve ending as they ran hands over shoulders, chests, faces...

A trail of clothes led from the living room- up the stairs to the bedroom. John guided him onto the sheets gently, as if he would shatter if handled too rough, but that was where Sherlock turned the tables again. He pulled John down with him by his forearms, pressing their lips together and curling his leg around the man's waist. Sherlock was glad he had lost his pants and trousers at the threshold of the bedroom door. Chills broke out across his arms when the friction finally began, and John took to nibbling at his ear as they rocked their hips.

"Oh, John please-" Sherlock whispered, causing John to bite his already kiss bruised lips and look down into the detective's eyes, before allowing him to trade places so that John was beneath Sherlock. The adoration and trust in those multifaceted eyes of the war-torn soldier below him, faintly echoed one soft spoken plea: 'slow down...'. Sherlock obeyed. For this man below him must be the one he was destined to remain with, for all eternity. No other had humbled him, nor peeled back the layers he used to shield himself, only to burrow in alongside him and pull them back up. John Watson was under his skin, and Sherlock found he had no problem with that.

The man who's neck he peppered with soft kisses and showered praises to in between, was the one of the few who had cared enough to look at him with kind eyes and the only one to love him, despite what he said or did at times. Sherlock was still humming affections when John moaned, causing him to look up to see those eyes shining in the light from the streets.

Another soft mewl from John, then a hitch in his airway as Sherlock licked at his jaw and stroked John's already tight again ring of muscle with his index and middle finger. When he pushed the digit in John gasped, and when he began to add more he began to pant, legs opening wide to give him access. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He was moving his fingers faster, scissoring him and spreading the three fingers currently inside John to open him wide. "S-Sherlock please-"  
>He closed his eyes and smiled, withdrawing his fingers to slide forward a bit, tip brushing his entrance. "God you make 'please' sound like it belongs only in a bedroom," He murmured, not thinking John had heard him until the man chuckled in a strained tone.<br>"_Please_..."  
>Sherlock rocked forward, pushing half of his length into John's sturdy frame, causing the soldiers back to arch and lips to part in a silent cry of pleasure. Sherlock remained still until John urged him onward, flushed body scooting back a bit on the sheets with each sharp snap of those wonderfully porcelain colored hips. He could feel each movement, and Sherlock could feel how wonderfully tight he was, even after the thorough preparation.<p>

"Sherlock..." John groaned, head tilting back to allow him more access as the taller man rained kisses upon every inch of reachable skin. He closed his eyes and sighed while his hands fumbled around for a moment, trying to find leverage to grasp and hold onto through the assault that heated his body to a degree he never thought was possible. They settled for one diving into the mass of ebony curls, while the other gripped at the back of the Adonis that drove into him.

Everything became hard to miss, the brush of fabric under him, the sounds they were making as the buildup was growing unbearable, the thick shaft pushing into his body with urgency while also trying to keep from moving too fast. "Don't cum yet, John," Sherlock reminded in a lucid voice. It was hypnotic and sensuous and God did it make John throb so hard it hurt. Being denied release he so desperately needed felt like both a vice and the most beautiful **heat**...

"Oh God," He gasped, writhing underneath him in wreckless abandon, too lost to think through the haze of heat clouding his mind. A thin sheen of sweat ran across his forehead. John forced his eyes open, watching as his lover's hair moved with each snap of his hips, eyes closed in vain attempts to control himself. Feeling the gaze on him, those usually pale blue eyes were lost to his blown out pupils. His hand was on John and moving rapidly and the doctor nearly cried out- and then the angel breathed.

_"John"_

John came with a cry, and his muscles tensing around him sent the detective into his own release. It took them an unmarked amount of time to even begin moving again; Sherlock rising from slumping against John to fetch a clean cloth, and John from his thigh burning spread out position into one more comfortable.

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><p>"For in my arms I hold the Flower of the Ages, and the first love of the world," He breathed as he held John to him after they had cleaned up, His arms circled John protectively,"He has been worn, but that only shows how strong he is-"<br>John's eyes opened a bit, his heart fluttering at his lover's words, "Sherlock..."  
>"He has been wounded, but rebounds with the strength of many in his wake," He nipped at his earlobe.<p>

The softest sound between a cry and a groan left the man who fisted the sheet with the hand resting on the bed while the other was holding on to Sherlock's arms. He had tried to hide his face- but only succeeded to ripple the muscle through his arm and torso. He wasn't used to compliments of this nature; closest thing to it would be praise on his work but by far this was more... healing; soothing, kind words, than no one else had ever cared to give him. From day one he had hated the very thought, that anyone would see Sherlock as cold or heartless. Oh how wrong they are, the fools. If they only cared to look with the eyes Sherlock has, they would see that within him was a great heart and a good man.

"S-Sherlock," Was he speaking? If he was he sounded like he needed water, his voice was airy and low, but his mind was elsewhere. It was with his eyes that took in the sweaty curls and ethereal glowing body that drove into him with wreckless abandon; his stomach muscles burned like he had just came back from a marathon run from how rough they had been when they were nearing their release.

To say I love you would be to degrade how I feel about you; to say I need you- an understatement. You are the epitome of what I've been searching for all of my life that I never knew I craved-' John wanted to cry; the words never left his lips... and he knew he would never memorize them in the haze of oncoming sleep. He would tell the detective one day how he felt in different words, for now he settled on curling as close as possible into the cage of his lover's arms, as the two slid into dreamless sleep.

They had nothing left to haunt them, nothing left to dream for. All they had ever wanted, they were slowly finding in one another.

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><p><strong>AN: Read and review please!**


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